


This Terrible Thing

by manhattan



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Boys Kissing, Developing Relationship, Humor, Iwaizumi Hajime Swears, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4950376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>01: Some absolute asshole keeps parking in Iwaizumi's spot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Terrible Thing

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be a collection of self-indulgent haikyuu AUs because i've finally had enough of reading through honestly funny prompts on tumblr without rly putting them to use

The first time, he lets it slide, even though there's a cooling pizza on the backseat and he is just absolutely starving. Iwaizumi might be brash, but he's understanding, too, and he figures sometimes it's bound to happen (even though it is _his_ parking space, with _his_ student ID printed neatly onto a little scrap of pinned-up paper). The second time, he doesn't even notice it's the same car, so he just drives around the building and finds another parking space. The third time, he counts to ten, and keeps on driving, because he's got a test the next day, and he can't stick around to feel mad.

The fourth time, though – the fourth time, he stops, tires screeching, and feels his eyes bulging out of his sockets.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Iwaizumi shouts, knuckles white around the wheel, and, though his windows are closed, the two girls walking outside still jump out of their skins.

 —

“No,” he says. “No. It's _my_ scholarship-awarded parking space, it has _my_ name on it, and I'm going to use _my_ hunting knife to slash their tires,” Iwaizumi grits out, staring out the window of his dorm. From the top bunk, Hanamaki yawns, and flips a page on his magazine.

“Calm down, Iwaizumi,” he drawls. “If someone sees you, you'll definitely lose that parking space of yours, along with your scholarship and your parents' love.”

Iwaizumi glares at him, but can't actually find a reasonable retort. He goes back to staring out the window, his right leg jerking up and down in impatience. Sooner or later, whoever the driver thinks he is—parking in _Iwaizumi's_ fucking parking space—he'll have to remove his car. Iwaizumi's got time.

“You have a report to write,” Hanamaki says, flipping another page in an infuriating way.

Iwaizumi wants to scream. He doesn't; instead, he picks up his laptop, sits by the window, and steals glances outside every five minutes. Hanamaki sighs, rolls his eyes, and keeps reading.

The report goes well—as well as a report written by an angry, distracted student can—and he even decides to skim through his notes for movement assessment as he waits. Hanamaki bids him goodnight eventually, slipping his phone under his pillow even though Iwaizumi's told him hundreds of times it's not good for his health, and Iwaizumi stares out the window for a long time, until his phone buzzes in his pocket. Then he's waking up without even having noticed falling asleep.

“Wha,” Iwaizumi startles, barely managing to grab his powered-off laptop before it slides out of his lap. There is dry drool at the side of his mouth, and he wipes at it distractedly, before he remembers the reason as to why his butt is sore and his back feels cricked. “No,” he mumbles, shoving his computer into his chair before slamming his forehead into the window—and the car is no longer there. “God – fuckin' damn it! Fuck!”

“Oh my _god,_ shut up,” Hanamaki groans, from the top bunk, like _he's_ never woken up Iwaizumi with girlish snorting at three in the morning. Iwaizumi just screams louder, barely resisting the urge to dropkick their desk lamp.

—

He flunks the report. His teacher highlights the three times he wrote “parking” instead of “participant”, the four times he wrote “car” instead of “cardio”, and the eleven times he wrote “asshole”, to which there really isn't an acceptable substitution. Iwaizumi deletes the e-mail, stares at the ceiling of his dorm room, and contemplates buying a stress ball.

—

The fifth time, he makes up a plan.

“Okay,” Iwaizumi says, rolling his shoulders under his backpack's handles. “I'm going, now.”

“Bye,” Hanamaki replies, scrolling through his phone. “If someone calls the campus security, I'll tell them I've never seen you in my life. Enjoy life in prison, Iwaizumi-kun, I'll miss you,” he adds, and pretends to wipe a tear away from the corner of his eye without actually looking away from the screen.

“I'm taking my ID card with me, asshole,” he hisses, feeling that his reaction is perfectly legitimate, even if the back of his neck heats up a little. Hanamaki says nothing in reply, so Iwaizumi slams the door on the way out, just to spite him. On the way down, he almost bumps into his RA, who seems to be showing the ropes to a young man; usually, Iwaizumi makes small talk, but he is determined to find out who's ass he is going to kick, and he wiggles out of the conversation in seconds, claiming to be on his way to the library.

“The library?” the brunet asks glibly, cocking his carefully-combed head. Irihata-san raises one eyebrow at him, looking confused. “At this time of night? Isn't that a little odd?”

 _What's it to you_ , Iwaizumi thinks, his fingers twitching to close into an angry fist.

“Yes. The library,” he ends up saying, tersely, and walks off. His hand is closing around the door handle, pushing it down, and he readies himself to clean up his anatomy notes while sitting next to the gray Honda —

“Iwaizumi-kun, wait!” Irihata-san calls out, and Iwaizumi thinks he might actually implode, but he just turns on his heel and tries to wipe his face clean of murderous feelings. “Oikawa-kun is transferring here from Tohoku Housing, and he's not yet familiar with the campus' student residence. Would it be too much to ask if you could help him get around the building? The shower drains are clogged again, and I have to go get Mizoguchi-san.”

Oikawa-kun is smiling in a way that makes Iwaizumi wants to punch him in his pretty little mouth. Irihata-san is smiling, too, but Iwaizumi can't punch him _him_ , so he just tries easing the spasm out of his right eye.

“Sure, Irihata-san,” he manages tightly, nodding once, and the brunet called Oikawa positively beams.

“Thank you, Iwaizumi-kun,” Irihata-san says, smiling widely, and walks off to his office. Iwaizumi waits until he is gone, and then turns to Oikawa.

“There is a communal bathroom in every floor, and the cafeteria is over there,” he says dryly, pointing towards the left end of the corridor. “Excuse me.”

He turns to leave, readjusting his backpack and mentally readying himself to stake out his parking place. Oikawa's eyes go wide, an offended frown materializing onto his forehead, and he grabs at Iwaizumi's elbow with a surprisingly strong grip.

“What!” the brunet exclaims, like he can't actually believe anyone would turn down the pleasure of his company. Iwaizumi stares at his hand like he's trying to pry it with his eyes, and Oikawa drops it, smiling apologetically. Then he frowns again, setting his hands against his hips: “Don't be _rude_ , Iwa-chan,” he adds, gaze narrowed, and that's _it_.

“What the fuck!? Don't call me Iwa-chan, you – you – Assikawa!”

Oikawa blushes—the _asshole_ —and presses a hand against his cheek, making a dismissive motion with the other. He looks like those middle-aged hostesses, Iwaizumi thinks, half-queasy.

“Ahn,” he moans, looking away demurely, “so dirty! I never would've thought, looking at you!” Iwaizumi's soul leaves his body with an excruciating pull. He doesn't think it'll ever return. “Here,” Oikawa goes on, pale and grinning again, pressing his cellphone into Iwaizumi's hand. “Give me your phone number, Iwa-chan.”

“ _Wha_ —why would I?” His voice goes a little high; it's not his proudest moment. Oikawa gives him that incredulous look again, like he's not quite certain whether Iwaizumi is slow on the uptake or just very stubborn. Iwaizumi just clears his throat, the back of his neck burning.

“You're officially my first friend in this dorm,” Oikawa explains slowly, and then beams, “aren't you _glad_? Because you should, you know! Not everyone is worthy—”

“Who's friends!?” Iwaizumi interrupts, aghast, and lifts his arm to throw the phone into the nearest wall – just in time for Irihata-san to come around the corner alongside Mizoguchi-san. “I, um,” he amends, because Mizoguchi-san is _scary,_ Matsukawa's stupidly thick hair keeps flooding their floor's showers, and Iwaizumi's sure the handyman _knows._ “Here,” he grits out in defeat, and jabs his number into Oikawa's phone.

“Great! You're welcome, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa sing-songs, and winks, before walking off up the stairs. Then he stops, looks over his shoulder, and smiles, before going off on his merry way. Iwaizumi stays put for a minute, and then wonders why he didn't even think to give the wrong number.

“Wait,” he mutters, the realization hitting like a slap, “ _I'm_ welcome!?”

“Be quiet, or you're the one who'll unclog the shower,” Mizoguchi-san snipes, pointing a metal hook in his direction. Iwaizumi hurriedly walks out of the building; he stands around for two minutes, sits down on the sidewalk, and buries his face into his hands.

—

“You're back early,” Hanamaki says, looking up from his phone. “Well?” he probes, when Iwaizumi doesn't say anything, one thin eyebrow lifting.

“What do you care?” Iwaizumi asks back, heading towards his bunk and falling face-first onto it.

“Issei and I are betting on whether you'll ever find the asshole parker or not,” he replies, bending over to stare at Iwaizumi's defeated form. “I'm on your side, if it helps.”

“It really doesn't,” Iwaizumi says, into his bed covers. He gets a mouthful of wool, so he turns his head to the side. “They didn't show up.”

“Really? I am extremely surprised,” Hanamaki drones, and sits back on his mattress.

Iwaizumi's too tired to reply.

—

He's balancing his books and his breakfast nikuman in one hand, while he tries to fish out a tea can from the vending machine, and of course that is the time Oikawa chooses to appear, tapping him in the arm and singing a good morning in the most annoying voice he has ever heard.

“I'll buy you another,” Oikawa says, scratching at his neck and smiling apologetically, as Iwaizumi stares at his fallen nikuman and decides smacking him with a book is a waste of his time and hard-earned money. “Want to swing by the cafeteria before classes start?”

“No,” Iwaizumi says, fetching the can and popping it open. All he wants is for this person to leave him alone, and to slash that shitty Honda's tires; he is under the impression neither of these dreams will happen. “Goodbye.”

“Ah,” Oikawa sighs, “so cold, Iwa-chan! Did you wake up on the wrong side of your bunk bed, this morning?”

Something in his head clicks, suddenly.

“Who's your roommate?” he asks, sipping his mint tea. He places the can on the top of the vending machine and leans over, picking up the nikuman and setting it in the trash.

“Why?” Oikawa asks, blinking, and then grinning. “Are you jealous, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi grabs his can, brings it to his mouth, and walks away.

“Okay, okay!” Oikawa concedes, running after him. He's clearly struggling not to laugh, though, and Iwaizumi wonders if it's too late to trade colleges. “This tall, tall, shallot-kun! You know him?”

“Kindaichi?” He was one of the few with a free bed; poor bastard, Iwaizumi thinks. “Yeah, I know him. Leave him alone,” he adds, frowning, “he's a good kid.”

Oikawa makes a victory sign, grinning widely. It's early enough that Iwaizumi sees the bags under his eyes, made fuller by the strength of his smile, and despite the flawless curl of his hair, Oikawa seems a little shaken.

“He also snores,” Oikawa says, the mirth on his face unbroken. Iwaizumi snorts under his breath, amused, and then pretends he was only slurping his tea. Iwaizumi never slurps anything; it's rude, and his parents have taught him well.

He wonders what this says of him, up until the point Oikawa slinks his arm through his and begins chatting about how many girls have asked for his number already, and it's only been a few days, and, _aren't you glad you gave me yours already, Iwa-chan?_ Then Iwaizumi just pushes Oikawa into the nearest doorway and hurries to class, completely failing to notice the stupid Honda _still_ parked in his spot.

—

“I know, Issei,” Hanamaki says into his phone. He gives the folding chair under Iwaizumi's arm a look, waits for Matsukawa to say something, and then says, again: “I _know_.”

“Stop that,” Iwaizumi says, feeling stupid. Hanamaki giggles at something, covering his mouth, and then snorts audibly, the giggles evolving into an avalanche of laughter. Iwaizumi slams the door as he exits, face burning, and makes his way to his parking spot. Then he sits down on his folding chair, pulls out his laptop from his backpack, and waits.

He gets through two and a half chapters on musculoskeletal therapy, taking down notes as he goes, and then begins writing a report that is only due in a week – if anything good has come out of this asshole car, it's that at least Iwaizumi learns how to focus even as students pass him by and wonder, loudly and bemusedly—

“Iwaizumi-san, what are you doing?” Kunimi asks, stopping to stare at him. He sounds like he's trying to keep his voice clear of amusement, and Iwaizumi closes his eyes and counts to three.

“An exercise in patience and retribution,” he replies, and goes back to his report.

“Okay,” the freshman replies. “Do you want anything from the vending machines?”

“I'm okay,” Iwaizumi says, pointing at the water bottle poking out of his backpack.

Kunimi frowns at him, half-confused, half-accepting, and shrugs, heading into the dorm building. Iwaizumi finishes his report, saves it, and pulls up the PDF with his exercises for clinical practice. He does that, too, and by the time the streetlights turn on he sighs and stands up, stretches his limbs a bit.

He is searching for the bag of chips he stashed somewhere in his bag when the Honda's headlights flash twice, an orange color flooding Iwaizumi's eyes. He is half-blinded, but the joy inside his chest is even brighter than the car's lamps, because after two weeks and a half of this bullshit, he is finally—

“Ah,” Oikawa says, frozen, his hand by the door. “Iwa-chan,” he adds, carefully, staring at anywhere but him, the smile on his face fixed and awkward, “I didn't see you there.”

“ _You_ ,” Iwaizumi hisses, and throttles him. “First you steal my parking space,” he says, shoving Oikawa into the nearest car, “then you make me drop my nikuman,” and Oikawa is wincing in pain even as he knees Iwaizumi in the gut, “oof—and then you _keep parking in my spot—_ “ and now Iwaizumi elbows him in the side and throws an arm around his head, tightening until Oikawa's pretty face goes the right shade of purple.

“Uncle!” he wheezes, slapping Iwaizumi on the arm several times. “Iwa-cha—ageh,” he chokes, and Iwaizumi finally drops him, palming his aching stomach. Oikawa drops to the floor inelegantly, hands and knees on the tar, and Iwaizumi curbs the urge to kick him on the head.

“Fucking shithead Oikawa,” he says, instead, with all the viciousness he can muster.

“You—you're mean, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa replies, still reedy. He coughs a few times, and then gives Iwaizumi a hurt look. Iwaizumi's eyes get wide enough that he drops the act immediately, instead looking aside and smiling awkwardly. “In my defense,” he begins, “I didn't know it was taken, the first time.”

“What about the other _eighteen hundred_ _times_?” Iwaizumi hisses, and whatever look he has on his face is terrifying enough for Oikawa to shiver, his shoulders tensing up and his eyes flitting to anything that isn't Iwaizumi.

“A-ah, well, that's. Yes. You look so cute when you're foaming at the mouth?” Oikawa tries, fetching his most dazzling smile. Iwaizumi's hands twitch in the direction of his throat and Oikawa backtracks until his back hits the car next to his, paling. “O-Okay! Okay! It was just _really_ close to the dorm and I—“ Iwaizumi takes a step in his direction, seething, and Oikawa clasps his hands together, “I—I won't do it again, I promise! Iwa-chan, you wouldn't hit such a pretty face, would you?”

Iwaizumi takes a deep breath, goes back to his folding chair, and, upon grabbing his stuff, heads into his dorm room. He doesn't look back – his parents would be ever so disappointed if he went to prison, and he doesn't trust himself not to murder Oikawa if he looks at him one more time.

—

“Issei won,” Hanamaki says, looking a little glum. “I can't believe it took you over two weeks to find him out. You're going to be a doctor, Iwaizumi. You need to be smarter than this,” he adds, frowning like Iwaizumi's mother does whenever he slacks off.

He doesn't answer; just drops everything by the door and stares at his roommate.

“Don't you have classes to attend?” he asks, because the last time he saw Hanamaki outside of his bed was in the showers, and Matsukawa was there too (ugh, gross).

“If I'd gone, I would've missed you wrestling the resident pretty boy into Mizoguchi's car,” Hanamaki says, like it's obvious, and then grins felinely. “I recorded it, if you'd like to see. You're very photogenic when you're beating the shit out of people, did you know?”

Iwaizumi falls face-down onto his bed again.

—

“Makki-chaaa—eh,” Oikawa says, staring at Iwaizumi. His hand is still around the knob of his dorm room, and his eyes are wide and frozen on Iwaizumi's face. He looks surprised, or maybe terrified, Iwaizumi can't tell which.

“Eh,” he replies, staring at Oikawa, his neurological handbook lying limp on his lap.

Hanamaki gives them both a bored glance and jumps out of his bunk, scratching his head.

“Glad you could make it,” he says. “Sorry, our room is a little messy, but I'll clear out our desk for you.”

“What is he doing here, Hanamaki,” Iwaizumi grits out, still staring at Oikawa.

“He's part of my group project,” Hanamaki replies, like a traitor. He even has the gall to raise one eyebrow. “Oh,” he says, like Iwaizumi is supposed to think he is actually surprised, “didn't I say?”

“You're a physical education student,” Iwaizumi hisses. “And you haven't gone to classes in forever.”

“I'm taking an English course,” Hanamaki replies, almost as if offended, and proceeds with piling Iwaizumi's books into a corner of their desk. It might be the first time he actually _uses_ it. “My mother insisted.”

“You—“

“I didn't know you shared your room with Iwa-chan, Makki-chan!” Oikawa interrupts, wearing a delighted expression now. He's a good actor. Has to be, really; no one would give Iwaizumi that sort of look after such a heated fight.

“Okay,” Iwaizumi says, somewhat relieved that he's not the only one with a cutesy nickname. “I'm leaving.”

“You're not still angry about the parking space, are you?” A glare from Iwaizumi tells Oikawa that he is _definitely_ still angry about the parking space. Oikawa has the decency to swallow tightly before grinning once more. “Come on, Iwa-chan! Let bygones be bygones! I promise we won't disturb you. Promise!”

He extends a pinky, which is brutally and immediately ignored, because Iwaizumi would twist it otherwise. Hanamaki sits on the rolling chair and gives Iwaizumi a tiny smile, crossing his legs and leaning his chin against his hand. Iwaizumi gets up from his bunk bed, grabs his book and Hanamaki rolls his eyes.

“Iwaizumi,” he says, looking at his fingernails, now, “don't you want to expand your vocabulary? I heard Hoshino-sensei gives extra credit to students who know how to pronounce _sternocleidomastoid muscle_ during the oral exams.”

Iwaizumi stills, fingers tight around the hardcover.

“That's bullshit,” he accuses, but he's not actually sure, because Hoshino-sensei is … not all there. He's heard rumors, but Hanamaki's eyes are positively shining, and that's never a good thing. Between them, Oikawa looks like he is regretting some life decisions, and that, at least, makes Iwaizumi feel a little better.

“How about _aponeuroses_?” Hanamaki asks, and though the accent needs work, Iwaizumi is certain he wouldn't be able to repeat the word aloud.

“Or _clavicle_?” Oikawa pipes in, and, yeah, damn it, he's good.

Iwaizumi grits his teeth, counts to ten, and sits back down again.

“What will your project be covering?” he asks, the ultimate question.

Oikawa's eyes are as bright as Hanamaki's, as he answers: “Human anatomy! It's the hardest one, so I figured it would be the one worth more credits.” He makes a victory sign with his left hand.

“Also, no one else picked it,” Hanamaki says, “and we both skipped that class.”

“Makki-chan, don't tell him that! It sounds way cooler the way I said it!”

Iwaizumi groans into his hands, feeling as if everyone is conspiring against him. He can't believe this. He cannot, at all, believe this.

“Fine,” he lets out, through his fingers. “Whatever.”

“Yay! Iwa-chan is staying with us! I'm super glad—“

“Don't push it, Trashykawa.”

And, to his surprise, Oikawa doesn't. He just smiles one final time, eyes glinting honey in the shitty sunlight they somehow manage to get, and then turns to Hanamaki's computer.

—

“Admit it,” Hanamaki says, while they pour over take-outs, “he's not that bad. Well, no. He _is_ that bad, but at least he likes us.”

Their English report is still open on Hanamaki's computer, a long smear of text that drags down half a page. Iwaizumi recognizes some words—more of them now than before—but he tears his eyes away as soon as Hanamaki nudges him.

Iwaizumi just grumbles into his chicken. When Hanamaki doesn't look away, he swallows and rolls his eyes.

“He stole my parking spot for over two weeks and he _knew_ it was mine as soon as we met,” he grunts, but the way Hanamaki is staring at him makes him feel stupid. It's one of his roommate's talents, he figures, to say things with his eyes. This time, it is _you're overreacting and it's been a month since then_ , which is actually quite impressive. “Also, he's annoying.”

Hanamaki snorts, pushing an almond aside with his chopsticks.

“I think the two of you work well together,” he says.

“We have literally never worked together,” Iwaizumi says, flatly.

“Iwaizumi,” Hanamaki says, dead serious, “you helped out more than I did.”

He brings a piece of chicken to his mouth and chews, while Iwaizumi frowns at him. Oikawa and Hanamaki started together, and eventually Hanamaki migrated towards his bunk, but Iwaizumi grew frustrated with their verbal exchanges and took over the exercise sheet himself— _oh my god_ , he realizes.

“You—you!” he shouts, ready to stab Hanamaki with his own chopsticks. The only reason he doesn't stand up as usual is because the plastic container in his lap is full of sauce. “You lazy fucker!”

“I do what I can,” Hanamaki replies, very blandly, but Iwaizumi can pick out the delight in his voice anyway. “Besides, I never wanted to take this stupid course, anyway.”

“Then why _did_ you!?”

“You've met my mother, Iwaizumi.”

He pauses, then.

“Well, yes,” he concedes, and brings another piece of chicken into his mouth. They eat in silence until Iwaizumi asks: “Does Hoshino-sensei really give extra credit for knowing how to speak English, or…?”

“Yeah, he does,” Hanamaki replies, nodding seriously. “Issei's accounting teacher is Hoshino-sensei's fiancée. Something about him having an English-speaking mom, or something. Issei heard it from her, and told me, since he knows you're his student. You're welcome.”

“Hoshino-sensei has a fiancée?” Iwaizumi asks, half-horrified, before he can stop himself. “Gross.”

“I _know_ , right?” the other boy replies, shuddering, and pops an almond in his mouth.

—

The library is almost empty, today, and Iwaizumi's steps echo between the bookshelves, rising up to the ceiling.

“I'm here to do Hanamaki's part of the project,” Iwaizumi says flatly, dropping his backpack onto the chair next to Oikawa. He still hasn't quite forgiven him for parking in his spot. Iwaizumi isn't territorial, he's just—no, fuck it, he _is_ territorial. And Oikawa is a pain in the ass, with a shitty car, and a shittier personality.

“Oh? If you'd told me this was a date, I'd have dressed a bit more—“ Oikawa starts, grinning.

“English project. Hanamaki's part. And fuck off,” Iwaizumi hisses, but he sits down anyway, pulling his laptop out of his backpack. As he waits for it to start up, he plays with a pencil, and then glances over at Oikawa: “Hoshino-sensei awarded me two extra points for knowing the English translation for articulation.”

It's not a thank you, not literally, but he thinks Oikawa knows it is.

“Yaay,” Oikawa sing-songs, clapping his hands once. Then he smirks, leaning closer, and Iwaizumi tenses, because it's the first time he's ever seen a non-immature expression on Oikawa's face, and it's – it's freaking _odd._ He inches back instinctively, ready to attack.“What's my reward, I-wa-zu-mi-chan?”

“Not getting punched in the mouth,” he retorts hotly, turning to his laptop once more and typing his password. He fumbles it, though, and has to retype it; he thinks he can feel Oikawa's eyes on the side of his face and it warms under his gaze. “What're we going to work on, today, Assikawa?”

Oikawa leans back again, one elbow against the table. By the time Iwaizumi looks at him again, he has returned to his usual grin, half-charming and half-childish, and it is easier to glower at him. Iwaizumi's neck is still warm, but he ignores it, and pulls the exercise sheet out of Oikawa's hands.

From there, they fall into an almost comfortable lull. Not _entirely_ – Oikawa is too annoying and Iwaizumi is still too pissed at him – but almost.

Oikawa reads the English words aloud in a soft voice, and Iwaizumi checks the dictionary and types whatever Oikawa tells him is right. For all his brilliant grades in high school, Iwaizumi's never found English easy, and even now he is still half unsure of what he's writing down. Oikawa does his best to make him understand, though, even if Iwaizumi is only here to learn anatomical terminology, and that makes him feel like he's losing a battle. He doesn't know why, or what he's battling for, but it does, and Iwaizumi feels an odd energy piling down on his stomach, slow but sure.

By the time Oikawa's phone starts buzzing, from inside his pencil case, Iwaizumi realizes they've been here for hours; far more time than the time they were in his dorm room. He doesn't know how he's managed to stick around this person for so long without imploding, but he doesn't think too much on it anyway.

“Mm,” Oikawa hums contemplatively, scrolling down on his phone, “it's time for Oikawa-sensei to leave.”

“Don't call yourself that,” Iwaizumi retorts, making a face, and begins packing his stuff away. “I'll e-mail you the text when I get to my room; there's still a few things I have to clean up.”

“Whatever you think is best, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, smiling, and then, dropping the volume of his voice to a near-inaudible whisper, says a few words in English. Iwaizumi feels the hairs on the back of his neck rising, because Oikawa's voice _is_ pleasant, even if the rest of him isn't, and turns on his chair with a frown.

“What?”

“Oh, you didn't get that?” he says, voice high and dramatic again, expression twisting in over-the-top pity. “Poor Iwa-chan! How does it feel to be so simple? No—don't tell me. I'm better off not knowing.”

“Good- _bye_ , shithead,” Iwaizumi drones, stepping on Oikawa's foot on his way out. Oikawa smothers his laughter behind a hand.

Iwaizumi only realizes he's smiling once he gets to his room, and just because Hanamaki asks him what's with the stupid grin.

—

 _I can't make it today, Iwa-chan! Soooorry! How about tomorrow afternoon?_ is what is written on the text he gets in the middle of cardio-respiratory dysfunction class. He's writing down the stuff on the board, and contemplates answering back, _who is this_ , because Oikawa hasn't given him his number yet, but then decides against it. It would be too much like teasing.

 _I can't tomorrow,_ he types back, and then wonders: why the hell shouldn't he tease Oikawa, considering the other man spends his time doing the exact same thing? His phone buzzing snaps him out of it: _Playing hard to get, Iwa-chan? I never thought you'd be the type._ He rolls his eyes, and, before he can reply, he gets another message. _No, wait, I take back what I said, you're tooootally the type!_

Iwaizumi decides not to answer until the class is over, because he imagines Oikawa restlessly waiting for his reply. _He seems like the type_ , he thinks sarcastically, and snorts under his breath, picturing the brunet checking his phone every two minutes.

In the end, though, Nazuka-sensei's lecture on early mortality rates proves to be too boring for him not to give into temptation, and Iwaizumi texts back: _Shut up. You're gross. I'm free on Tuesday._

Oikawa's reply is immediate: _Tsuntsun much?_ _I'll see you on Tuesday, then, Iwa-chan! I can't wait._

This time, Iwaizumi doesn't answer. He knows what tsuntsun means (Hanamaki has several interests outside of school and physical education), but he won't give Oikawa the satisfaction of knowing he _knows_. So he chucks his phone into the outer pocket of his bag and focuses his attentions on Nazuka-sensei's voice, and on the powerpoint presentation being projected onto the white board.

—

“You're flirting,” Hanamaki says, when Iwaizumi returns from the bathroom.

“You're flirting harder than we do,” Matsukawa adds, from his spot on his boyfriend's lap, “and we are in an actual relationship.”

“Is that my phone?” Iwaizumi asks, digging his fingers into the towel around his neck. If his voice goes a little high (it does), no one comments on it.

“Hello to you, too, Iwaizumi,” Matsukawa says, scrolling down Iwaizumi's phone.

“Matsukawa,” Iwaizumi nods, and then climbs up the stairs to the top bunk in order to steal back his phone. Matsukawa doesn't try very hard to keep it, and it is back on Iwaizumi's pocket after brief seconds of struggle; Hanamaki snorts and pats his boyfriend on the forehead. “And we aren't – flirting,” he spits out. “This is about the project I'm doing in Hanamaki's stead.”

“Takahiro mentioned something like that,” Matsukawa says, closing his eyes and relishing the attention. “But you're still flirting.”

“You are,” Hanamaki agrees, and looks at Iwaizumi in the eye. Then, deadpan: “Shut up. You're gross. I'm free on Tuesday.”

“Knock that shit off,” Iwaizumi chokes out, feeling his ears heat under his roommate's dry gaze.

“Disgustingly cute, if you ask me,” Matsukawa says.

“Truly,” Hanamaki says, leaning down to press a kiss on his nose.

“I'm leaving,” Iwaizumi proclaims loudly, even though he's just returned from the showers and all he wants to do is lie down and sleep.

“No, you're not,” Hanamaki says, because he knows Iwaizumi, and he knows when his threats are unfounded. “Issei brought us Thai, and you're supposed to finish that, uh, what was it, again?”

“Cartilage lesions' study,” Matsukawa answers. Hanamaki runs a hand through his hair, then pats him again. Iwaizumi's used to the public displays of affection already, but the sweetness still makes him feel slightly nauseated. He wonders if throwing a pencil at them is worth it, then decides against it. “You're supposed to get the chapter ready for tomorrow's class.”

“Why the hell do you know so much about my academic life? You guys are fucking creepy,” Iwaizumi says, but sits down at the desk anyway, rummaging through the food bags. It smells good, and he hasn't eaten since lunchtime; he decides to forgive them for being so weird.

“Don't talk to your parents like that, Hajime,” Matsukawa says, very seriously, and when Hanamaki laughs – a real, loud laugh – Iwaizumi can't help but to follow after.

—

Oikawa is already standing beside the library doors when Iwaizumi gets there, slightly out of breath.

“It's packed in there,” Oikawa says, and sets those piercing eyes on Iwaizumi's half-open mouth. “Iwa-chan, I'm flattered, but there was no need to come running!” he adds, grinning, setting a hand against his chest.

“Shut up,” he says reflexively, and then peers across the glass partition. Oikawa isn't lying. Iwaizumi had expected something like this anyway, with what the literature majors having been scheduled a pop quiz for tomorrow morning. “Well,” he goes on, backing away from the doors, “where do you want to go, then?”

“Kindaichi has two friends over, so my room is a no-go!” Oikawa crosses one arm over the other, reminding Iwaizumi of children's shows. It makes a smile bubble up his throat; he bites the inside of his cheek to let it melt away. “Makki-chan said his boyfriend's come over, today, so I'd wager your room's a no-go, too?”

“Yeah, Matsukawa's there,” Iwaizumi replies, distracted. “The cafeteria is quiet, sometimes, if you—what? Why do you have that look on your face?”

“What a commoner,” Oikawa says, face wrinkled with contempt. Iwaizumi glares, and only doesn't headbutt him because the library is right here and Oikawa is loud. “The cafeteria, Iwa-chan? Honestly? Let's go to a real café! I spend enough time on campus as it is.”

“You do?” Iwaizumi asks, surprised. Oikawa is always busy – Kindaichi hardly ever sees him – but Iwaizumi had figured he spent his time outside. Picking up girls, or part-time modeling, or karaokeing, or whatever it is that laid-back guys do.

“What's that tone supposed to mean!” Oikawa complains, crossing his arms like a normal person now. “I'm a very busy person! I'm working as a TA, I'll have you know.”

“You _are_?” Iwaizumi asks, even more surprised. “I mean – sorry, I didn't mean – I just didn't think someone like you would be serious about college.”

“Someone like me?” Oikawa asks back, and his eyes narrow just so, a dangerous glint sliding into the hazel of his irises. “I wonder, I wonder, what Iwa-chan could possibly mean?”

“You're annoying and you don't seem to take anything seriously. It's not my fault that's the opinion I have of you, when you've done nothing to change it,” Iwaizumi replies dryly, and digs his thumbs inside the handles of his backpack. “Now, if you're done putting your cool face on, just pick a place where we can go to. If the literature majors are having a pop quiz tomorrow, I might have one next week, and I don't want to waste time like this.”

Oikawa's eyes go very wide, and his mouth opens just so. Then he laughs, so loud he actually slaps a hand across his mouth to contain the cheerfulness erupting out of him in waves. Iwaizumi's face goes hot, and his frown deepens, but Oikawa doesn't look like he's making fun of him. He's just – laughing.

Iwaizumi's face goes even hotter, for some stupid reason.

“Right,” Oikawa says, between sharp breaths. There's the slightest flush of pink across his nose. “Iwa-chan is absolutely right! Come on,” he adds, “I know just the place for us to go to.”

Iwaizumi should be suspicious, but he can't bring himself to actually argue. He nods, walking half a step behind Oikawa, and digs his fingers into the handles of his backpack even harder.

“So – my cool face, is it?” he asks, over his shoulder, that wicked smirk in place. “Are you falling for me, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi kicks him in the back of a knee, and feels a sweet satisfaction wash over him when Oikawa falls flat on his face.

—

They end up using Oikawa's stupid Honda, which still makes Iwaizumi want to grab his hunting knife and slash its tires out, but the ride is quick and the café Oikawa chooses is quiet and cozy.

“I was expecting a hostess' club,” Iwaizumi drones, walking inside, and Oikawa grins.

“You're surprisingly shameless, Iwa-chan,” he replies, snickering, and waves at the old lady by the register. “Good afternoon, baa-chan! I'll have the usual, please!”

“Tooru-kun, it's been a while,” the old woman says, smiling fondly. “And your friend?”

Iwaizumi straightens under her gaze, then bows, and asks for a coffee and a glass of water, please.

“So proper, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa teases, after they've sat. Iwaizumi's quick to pull out his laptop, leaving enough space for his glass of water and his coffee cup. “And here I thought you were rude all the time.”

“Shut up, Assikawa,” he says, without really thinking about it, and Oikawa's smile is soft. Iwaizumi averts his eyes to the screen, feeling the tips of his ears grow warm. “If you wanted me to act proper towards you, maybe you should've thought before you went and parked your car in my—“

“Okay, okay,” Oikawa says, half-laughing, raising his hands in apology. His strawberry milkshake brings a loopy straw and Iwaizumi remembers this is his usual order. He doesn't know what to make of it. “So, today we'll be studying bones! Isn't that exciting?”

Not particularly, but Oikawa makes it sound like it anyway, and it's not like Iwaizumi won't benefit from this later. They go over the legs, first, then move over to the sternum, and Iwaizumi's accent is just awful – he sucks at rolling his r's ( _it's not libu, idiot, it's ribu, ribu, with an r!_ ) – but Oikawa doesn't make as much fun of him as previously expected. That's not to say he doesn't make several jibes over how terribly Iwaizumi reads in English, most of which are followed by kicks under the table, but it's all kind of … familiar, maybe? Iwaizumi doesn't know.

“I think we're done with this part,” Iwaizumi says, and cracks his knuckles. Oikawa goes very stiff, eyes wide on his fingers. “What?”

“That's gross!” he replies, shuddering dramatically, hands grabbing at his forearms.

Iwaizumi does it again, and Oikawa actually gets up from his chair, glaring and pointing in the register's general direction.

“I'll call baa-chan,” he threatens, and Iwaizumi turns his face away, admitting defeat through non-verbal means.

“That's cheating, asshole.”

“Oh? I wasn't aware we were playing a game.”

Iwaizumi glances at him, readying a glare, and finds Oikawa staring, hazel eyes bright and penetrating. He brings up a lean hand, slightly callused, and rests his chin on it. And Iwaizumi hasn't fallen in love since high school, where everything was brighter and easier and it seems like so long ago – but not long enough that he has forgotten how it feels.

“Aa,” he manages, throat tight, and turns away to slide his laptop into his bag. Oikawa must've noticed the shade of his face by now, from the way he's staring, but that's not what bothers Iwaizumi the most. It's the sudden nervousness that crawls up from every single end of his body and converges on his chest, arresting even the simplest of words.

“Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks, from behind his hand.

“Mm?” he asks back, zipping up his backpack.

“You're single, right?”

Iwaizumi laughs, he can't help it.

“Yeah, I'm single,” he says, and meets Oikawa's stare head-on. The tips of his lean fingers are pallid against the pink flush on his face, which relieves Iwaizumi the slightest bit. If he's going to be embarrassed, Oikawa better be, too. “Why?” he presses, smirking; he has always been most comfortable hiding behind offense. “Are you falling for me, Trashykawa?”

Oikawa uses his free hand to play with the loopy straw, eyes darting from Iwaizumi's to the bright red plastic. If Iwaizumi looks hard, he can still see the remnants of strawberry foam sticking to the glass.

“Maybe I am,” Oikawa finally says, smiling, and oh.

Okay. Okay, Iwaizumi's face is burning. He's not good with this sort of thing; he's used to falling first, dealing with it later, but Oikawa is dealing with it now and – and what? He wonders if Oikawa's mouth tastes fresh and sugary like the milkshake.

“You should've considered that before you parked your car in _my_ spot,” Iwaizumi grunts, despite himself, and Oikawa laughs, pulls him by the collar of his shirt, and leans in. Iwaizumi's stomach flutters, but then he remembers there is a sweet old lady just _there_ and he ends up headbutting Oikawa on the nose instead.

“W-What,” Oikawa says, falling back on his chair and pinching his nostrils shut. He is red-faced, now, finally, expression baffled and honest. Iwaizumi prefers him like this. The smirk is cool (not that he'll ever admit it aloud), but this side of Oikawa is better, he doesn't know why. It just is.

“Do you think I'm this easy, Trashykawa?” he retorts, putting his backpack on and getting up from his seat. There is a tiny trickle of blood sliding down Oikawa's left nostril, so Iwaizumi snatches a few napkins and wipes it off, before ordering him to pinch it closed for a long time.

“It's the first time someone headbutts me,” Oikawa asks. His voice is nasal and it makes Iwaizumi want to laugh, so he does just that, flicking Oikawa on the forehead. “Ow! Iwa-chan, quit it!”

“Do you have plans for dinner, shithead?” Oikawa's expression brightens immediately. Iwaizumi flicks him again. “Not like that. Hanamaki and Matsukawa are going out. Want to order some take-out and eat in?”

“Is junk food _all_ you eat, Iwa-chan?”

“Not really,” Iwaizumi says, fiddling with the straps around his shoulders. “I know how to cook. I just haven't had the time, lately. And who are you to judge, Mr. I'm So Busy Being An Insufferable Idiot? I bet you can't don't even know how to cook store-bought noodles.”

“I-I can cook!” Oikawa very obviously lies. Then he looks to the side and pouts. “What kind of takeout?”

“Pizza?” Iwaizumi suggests, shrugging.

—

The first time, he lets it slide, even though there's a cooling pizza on the backseat and he is just absolutely starving. This time, Oikawa parks on the other side of campus, and they take their time walking across, even though they're carrying three small pizzas in their hands and the night is frosty.

“Iwa-chan, they're going to get cold,” Oikawa complains.

“I'll kick you,” Iwaizumi says, and then glares at him. “I still can't believe you don't like mushrooms.”

“They taste funny, and they feel weird! I still can't believe you don't like pineapple,” he retorts.

“It's unnatural to put fruit on a pizza!”

“Tomato is a fruit, Iwa-chan!”

“S-Shut up, asshole!”

“God, this is the most low-key date I've ever been to,” Oikawa says, burying his face into his free hand. “Do you at least have any juice, Iwa-chan?”

 _This wasn't a date_ , Iwaizumi thinks, but is unable to say.

“You can get your own when we pass by the vending machines.”

“Stingy!”

“Piss off.”

Oikawa gets a Coke when they pass by the vending machines. He gets Iwaizumi a natural juice, and gets inappropriately pleased by the sight of Iwaizumi drinking it. The pizzas are still warm, somehow, and they eat eagerly before Iwaizumi begins polishing off Hanamaki's English report.

“Oh, right,” Iwaizumi remembers, “Hoshino-sensei gave me five more points for pronouncing _sternocleidomastoid muscle_ correctly. I might actually manage to pass with full marks, at this rate.”

“You're welcome,” Oikawa says, biting down on his last slice. “When your parents ask you what miraculous event allowed you to pretend to be such a genius, please point them my way, and I'll be glad—ow! Iwa-chan, stop! Stop!”

Iwaizumi stops kicking him. Oikawa wipes his fingers on the nearest napkin, and then leans over the empty cardboard boxes to kiss Iwaizumi on the mouth. He tastes like tomato sauce and bread, and Iwaizumi almost drops the computer from his lap, but Oikawa brings up his hand to close it around Iwaizumi's hair. Then the laptop falls anyway, replaced by Oikawa's legs around Iwaizumi's waist.

“Huh,” Oikawa says, when they part. Iwaizumi leans his forehead against his chest, feeling warm in all the right places.

“Huh, _what_ , Shittykawa?” he manages to ask, into Oikawa's shirt.

“Dunno,” Oikawa mumbles, and kisses him again, tipping Iwaizumi's red face upwards and into his.

This time the kiss is harder – they are both finding their bearing around each other's lips, mapping them out for further actions – and Iwaizumi's hands find their spot on Oikawa's hips, thumbs digging into his hipbones until Oikawa's stomach quivers and he parts again.

“Guess I thought you'd be an awful kisser,” Oikawa says.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Iwaizumi says, but he's laughing, and he flips over Oikawa, proves him wrong for as long as he can; for as long as they've got.

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt/AU:** “You keep parking in the space outside my student house, you absolute asshole.”
> 
> ever since i read [this beautiful fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2382848), i simply can't imagine college!iwaizumi going into anything other than physiotherapy. such a good headcanon. rip manhattan
> 
> also this was supposed to be a short crack fic and i just lost control i guess ?? ? iwaoi slayed me. i should've known better tbh (´ ڡ `)


End file.
